


Pins and Needles

by yodasyoyo



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Hale Family, Allison Argent & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Height difference, M/M, Mates, Monster of the Week, Oblivious Stiles, Pining Derek, Possibly the most self indulgent thing I've ever written, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Socially Awkward Derek, Spark Stiles Stilinski, but like a magical high school au, magical!Stiles, only slightly less socially awkward stiles, or at least-- he's socially awkward in a different way
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-20
Updated: 2019-05-15
Packaged: 2019-11-26 10:12:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18179285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yodasyoyo/pseuds/yodasyoyo
Summary: He isn’t a hundred percent sure what just happened, but he thinks he just accidentally asked out Derek Hale.And Derek Hale said yes.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ha! I make no apologies for this. None.

“Wait!” Stiles slams his locker shut and turns the key. “Wait a minute. Let me get this straight. Derek? Derek Hale? Grumpy Derek? With the eyebrows?” When he woke up this morning he figured the latest frost giant attack in the preserve was gonna be the biggest news of the day. Apparently he’d been wrong.

Scott takes a sip of his Dr. Pepper, faux casual, and leans back against his locker, then says, “What makes you think he’s grumpy?”

“Have you ever seen him crack a smile?”

“I—” Scott stills, head cocked to one side in a weirdly canine gesture. “That doesn’t mean he’s grumpy.”

“He threatened to rip out Matt’s throat the other day,” says Stiles, shrilly.

“Yeah, but Matt’s kind of a dick.”

“He threatened to rip out Matt’s throat _with his teeth_ !” Stiles doesn’t feel this point can be emphasized enough, the _thought_ of it makes him anxious; he rubs his sweaty palms on his jeans. Magic seethes just below his skin, prickling like pins and needles.

He doesn’t need this kind of stress in his life, it isn’t good for him.

Just last week he’d gotten so anxious during his invocation practical assessment, he’d accidentally blown a hole in the wall of the school’s magic lab. He’d knocked himself unconscious in the blast, come to in the nurse’s office, and Nurse Mendez had joked that his senior year had started with a bang.

Ha fucking ha.

Taking a deep breath he tries to calm himself. To Scott he says, “Besides, let’s be real now, _I’m_ kind of a dick. So if he has a problem with people who are kind of a dick, then your plan definitely shouldn’t include—”

“Please? You know my mom gets weird about me going to shit like this without a member of the pack present.” In truth Scott’s mom had been pretty cool about the whole Scott-becoming-a-werewolf thing, but she’s still super-protective about some stuff, and Scott’s expression now is wide-eyed and pleading. “Cora’s too young, and now Laura’s pre-med at Cornell—”

Ugh. Why did the _only_ sociable Hale child have to leave?  

“Motherfucker,” Stiles hisses, shoulders slumping in defeat. “Fine.”

“Cool!” At once Scott’s pleading expression morphs into a grin.

“I just don’t understand why I should be the one to ask him. This is _your_ plan!” sputters Stiles. “You’re like, packmates, or whatever!”

“Yeah, but— I think it’ll go better if it’s you.”

“Why?”

Scott shrugs. “I think he— uh-- likes you better.”

“He’s never spoken two words to me!” A fact Stiles is painfully aware of. “What makes you think he even knows who I am?”

“Of course he knows who you are!” Scott says. “Like you said, me and Derek are packmates, and you’re my best friend. He definitely knows who you are. Besides, you came with me to celebrate the blue moon at his mom’s house. Twice.”

Like that means anything. Whenever there's a blue moon the Hale pack always hosts a big party to celebrate. There have been two blue moons (and therefore two parties) this year, which has been all kinds of awesome, because most years there's only one. At the first party, back in the spring, Stiles had snuck away with Laura and Scott and gotten drunk in the preserve. Scott had ended up carrying him home and putting him to bed-- so Stiles' memories of the evening are a little too fuzzy to be sure, but he doesn’t think he and Derek spoke to each other.

They definitely hadn’t interacted at the second party  a couple months back. Well, except for the part where Derek kept glaring intently at Stiles in a way that had all the hairs on his neck standing on end, every fiber of his being screaming at him to cower and hide like prey, while his magic snapped and crackled under his skin. Stiles _may_ have accidentally set fire to a table cloth. It had been a whole thing, but Talia had been nice about it.

If Stiles is honest, the whole Derek glaring-at-him situation had been kind of a weird turn on, but he can hardly be judged for that. With all the supernatural shenanigans in Beacon Hills and the sheer number of supernaturally hot badasses that are drawn here, his fear response is kind of fucked. Still, his kinks are his own-- he refuses to be judged.

The point is, Derek has never once tried to speak to him, or given any indication that he likes Stiles, let alone likes him better than Scott.

“So he knows who I am, big whoop. What makes you think he—” Stiles lowers his voice a little and leans in closer. “-- _likes_ me more than _you_.”

“Just— y’know— a vibe I get.” Scott shrugs, takes another sip of his drink.

“A vibe?”

“Yeah!”

Stiles stares at him. “I’m gonna need more than that.”

“I don’t know how to explain it. It’s—” Scott sniffs, nostrils flaring. “A wolf thing. He definitely doesn’t hate you.”

Obviously Stiles isn’t gonna get more than that out of Scott today. He tries a different tack. “But he knows you. He talks to you. This is your plan. Shouldn’t you be the one to--”

“Yeah— but I’m like— I don’t know. The annoying brother. He won’t do it for me.”

“But you think he will for me?”

“Yeah.”

“Because of a ‘vibe’ you’re getting?”

“Exactly.”

“An ‘I want to eat Stiles,’ vibe?”

“He isn’t gonna eat you.”

“Or maim, or mutilate?”

“Dude. Just ask him. Seriously. I swear. I will owe you so bad.”

“You already owe me. You owe me like a billion times over,” Stiles grumbles, but he knows he’s gonna cave. He’s practically agreed to do whatever Scott asks already. “Ugh. If I do this and he kills me, will you cradle my lifeless corpse in your arms and tell my dad I loved him?”

“Pfff. It isn’t gonna come to that.”

“Isn’t it?” Stiles says. “Are you sure about that?”

“Definitely. Derek’s nicer than you think he is.”

“Nice,” Stiles snorts. He’s known Derek— well, known  _of_ Derek most of his life. Nice is definitely not the word he would have chosen. “If he’s so nice why don’t you ask him.”

“I’ll come with you,” says Scott, choosing to ignore Stiles’ last comment. “I’ll be your wingman.”

“Wingman?” At that Stiles staggers back a step. “ _Wingman?_ You want me to convince him to go to Lydia Martin’s party next Friday, so that your mom will let you go too, fine. But I don’t need a wingman! I’m not asking him out.”

“Bad choice of words. You’re my —erm— my co-conspirator.”

“Hmmf.” There’s something hinky about all this. Stiles can’t put his finger on what it is, but it makes his nose itch. “He’s gonna eat me, isn’t he?”

“That’s speciest. Werewolves don’t eat people.”

“The last time I went to one of those pack things at the Hale house, I swear he was looking at me like I was— I don’t know-- some kind of snack.” Scott nearly chokes on the last of his Dr. Pepper, and Stiles glares at him. “All I’m saying is. If I die trying to help you get the girl, you are gonna be—”

“You’re not gonna die, Stiles. I swear.”

Stiles doesn’t believe him.

 

-

 

Beacon Hills High is one of three schools in California that caters specifically for children who are-- different. Supernaturally different. Werewolves, the fae, vampires, sparks— you name it, they’re all thrown together in the melting pot of BHHS, where, alongside traditional subjects like Chem and English Lit, students are taught Interspecies Cooperation, Control, and the History of the Supernatural.

Stiles got into BHHS on the basis that he’s a spark (like his mom used to be). Frankly it had been a relief when he started there because Stiles has a lot of raw power, but had always struggled with fine control, which meant a lot of his childhood pre-BHHS had been spent replacing electronic equipment and regrowing singed eyebrows. Thankfully, over the years he’s gotten better and it’s less of a problem than it used to be-- (recent magic lab explosion notwithstanding).

Anyway, other than helping with his control, the other good thing about high school had been meeting Scott-- within a week of starting their freshman year they were best friends. Scott was from nearby Beacon Valley, and had been bitten by a rogue alpha werewolf in eighth grade.

After getting bitten, Scott joined the local pack, whose alpha, Talia Hale, had three kids of her own. Laura, the oldest (and now away at college). Cora, who’s about three years younger than Stiles and who is (in Stiles’ opinion) a sociopath. Finally there’s Derek, who’s the same age as Scott and Stiles, and who’s a monosyllabic mountain man, grumpy as sin and, unfortunately, hot like the sun.

Not that Stiles has ever admitted that last bit out loud to anyone.

Anyway, despite the fact that Derek’s the same age as them, and in the same pack as Scott, he’s never hung out with Stiles and Scott at school or acknowledged them in any way. Instead he just keeps to his own tight-knit group of friends.

So Stiles doesn’t know what the fuck Scott is talking about with this ‘vibe’ nonsense. The only vibe he’s ever felt coming from Derek Hale is indifference overlaid with a thin veneer of impatience and a sprinkling of barely repressed anger for added piquancy.

Later that day, at lunchtime, Stiles sits at his regular table clutching his juice box and half listening to Scott, who is busy detailing the many perfections of Allison Argent.

Allison joined BHHS at the beginning of their senior year, after her family moved to the area. It’s been almost a month now, and Stiles still isn’t sure _what_ she is exactly, but she must be something because she’s here, and since she arrived she’s all Scott has been able to talk about. Her dimples, her smile, her laugh, the way she eats her jello, the way she holds her pen.

It’s kind of annoying.

Although Stiles might be less annoyed by it, if he could work out what the hell she _was_.

She isn’t a wolf, Stiles knows that much. Scott would be able to smell it on her, and besides, wolves have tells, like the way they flare their nostrils on entering a room, or the way their fingers twitch when they’re mad, like they’re thinking of unleashing their claws.

Allison doesn’t do any of those things.

She isn’t a vampire either. Vampires all have a slightly waxy look about them, eyes sunken and blood shot, they’re tired, gaunt and hungry looking. They spend all their time holed up in dusty corners of the library, or hunched over books in the quieter classrooms doing their homework. They tend to wear long sleeves, turtle neck sweaters or, in Isaac Lahey’s case, scarves in summertime. They drink blood from janky thermoses and reek of sunblock. No, Allison’s definitely not a vampire.

She could be some sort of fae, Stiles supposes, but even that doesn’t fit right. Fae have a sharpness to them that sets Stiles’ teeth on edge, like that feeling when you accidentally bite down on aluminum foil. It sets his own magic fizzing, and he’s never come close to feeling anything like that in Allison’s presence.

A couple weeks back he’d asked Scott if he knew what she was, and Scott had just got that sappy, lovestruck expression on his face and sighed dreamily, “She’s perfect.”

So. It’s kind of bothersome.

Not knowing.

Stiles doesn’t like it.

But it’d be assholish to just come out and ask her what she’s doing here. And Scott is, like, head over heels in love with her, so Stiles is trying to make his peace with it and be supportive. Which is why he’s agreed to this hare-brained scheme involving Lydia Martin’s party.

As Stiles sits in the cafeteria now, worrying the straw of his juice box between his teeth and half listening to Scott, he wonders if Allison’s a veela. Are veelas a thing? Or is that only in Harry Potter?

Perhaps if Stiles snuck into the school office and went through the records? After all, Allison’s gotta have a file or something.

Next to him, Scott says, “Oh my god. Look, she’s eating her vanilla pudding cup. Look at the way her nose wrinkles. She’s just so—” He trails off.

Stiles turns to look at Allison, who is sitting on a table three across from them with Lydia Martin, Jackson Whittemore, and Danny Mahealani. She’d basically been absorbed into the popular crowd the moment she arrived.

As Stiles watches, Allison darts a glance at Scott and sends him a shy wave, flashing him a dimpled smile. Next to him, Scott quivers with excitement and waves back, knocking his chocolate milk all over Stiles’ mac and cheese in the process.

“She waved at me,” Scott hisses in Stiles’ ear, eyes still glued to Allison. “It’s a sign! You have to speak to Derek now.”

Stiles stares down at his lunch tray, at the little lumps of macaroni that are now bobbing like boats on a lake of chocolate milk, and sighs.

Sometimes he hates his life.

 

-

 

“Ok. Ok,” Scott says later. “Just go up to him. Like we rehearsed. Ok? Ok.” He peers around the lockers and then ducks his head back quick and pins himself against the wall. “Shit. I think he saw me.”

“I thought you were gonna go with me!” Stiles grumbles. “Now I’m just supposed to go up to him by myself and—”

“Shhh—” Scott places a finger to Stiles’ lips, cutting him off.

Immediately Stiles licks it in retaliation and Scott pulls his hand back with a grimace.

“Please!” he mouths.

“Fine,” whispers Stiles.

“You’re the best.”

“Better than Allison?”

“You’re both the best in very different ways.”

“Mmmhmm.” Stiles rolls his eyes, but Scott doesn’t seem to notice.

“Ok. Ok. So. Just ask him. God. It’s a good thing you wore that Iron Man tee today.” Scott casts a critical eye over him, brushing an imaginary speck of dust from Stiles’ shoulder.

“What! Why?”

“Because it’s—you— no reason. Geeze. Can’t a bro tell another bro that he likes their style without a whole bunch of intrusive questions?”

Stiles glares at him. The Iron Man tee in question is three years old, and two sizes too small. He’s only wearing it because neither he nor his dad have managed to do any laundry in about two weeks. “I don’t trust you.”

“Probably wise,” Scott grins, shoving him and sending Stiles staggering forward. “Remember!” he hisses, “Like we rehearsed!”

Stiles stumbles round the corner just in time to see Derek striding quickly away, already most of the way down the hallway. With a yelp he hurries after.

“Hey,” he calls, breaking out into a jog to try and catch up. “Hi. Hey! Wait!” Just like that Derek disappears around the corner. “Fuck,” Stiles mutters and ups his pace to a run.

When he finally rounds the corner, he spots Derek’s dark hair and leather jacket in the distance, head and shoulders above the throng of students in the corridor but moving further away all the time.

“Hey! Stop. Hey!” he yells, as loud as he can. “Derek!”

At the sound of his own name Derek finally looks back, one impressive eyebrow raised, but he doesn’t actually stop walking.

“Derek!” Stiles calls, speeding up, pushing his way through the crush of bodies making their way to class. “Will you wait up? Please?”

Mercifully, Derek slows his pace, and eventually Stiles finally catches him.

“Hey,” he pants, stumbling over, spots dancing before his eyes.

“What?”

“Just--uh— oh god. I think I’m gonna—” He reaches out and grabs Derek’s leather jacketed arm to steady himself, breathing hard. “Can you--maybe—”

Finally Derek stops, looking down, his eyes fixed on where Stiles is hanging on to him for dear life. Immediately Stiles lets go; he can feel himself flushing pink.

“Sorry. Fuck. Sorry. Um—”

“What’s—”

“Going on?”

“--Wrong with you?” Derek seems genuinely affronted by Stiles lack of physical fitness, or possibly by the fact he dared to touch the sacred leather jacket. It’s hard to tell.

In spite of his nerves, Stiles bristles. “Nothing’s wrong with me! Geeze.” He draws himself up to his full height, which is still about six inches shorter than Derek. “So not all of us are super athletic born wolves who are built like a house.”

A super hot house.

A house that he happens to know, from gym class, has really defined abs, and that, this close, smells amazing. A house with really thick forearms and an amazing ass.

Okay the house analogy isn’t really working, but seriously, Stiles is only realizing how ripped Derek is now he’s standing this close.

He’s always known on an intellectual level that born wolves are bigger than your average human, and that Derek is particularly built. But now it’s hitting him: Derek is huge.

Enormous.

Geeze.

Derek’s probably big all over, Stiles’ brain thinks. Then, treacherously: like _all_ over. The thing is Derek can also smell arousal, so if Stiles wants to survive this conversation he should probably, definitely not--

“You look like you’re about to collapse,” Derek says, derailing Stiles’ train of thought.

“Well,” Stilles mutters, “you’re really big, and I’m super hard.”

At his words Derek raises both eyebrows, mouth falling open ever so slightly. That’s when Stiles hears what he just said.

“IT. It’s super hard. For me. To catch up to you. Because you are a born wolf and therefore big. No! Not big. I--Large? Thick. Long. Shit.” He presses his fingertips to his temples and scrunches his eyes like he’s bracing for a crash. “Your legs. Are long I mean. Not your di—I don’t. Ha! I’m not thinking about. That. You’re tall. Tall! Oh thank God. That’s the word. Tall and, and long limbed. You are. Long. Limbed. Geeze. Oh my fuck. I didn’t—” Stiles blushes, flailing backwards a step and nearly trips over his own feet; immediately Derek reaches out a hand to steady him.

“I’m fine.” Stiles says pulling out of Derek’s grip like it burns him. “I don’t— You don’t have to—”

Derek doesn’t say anything, but that intense stare is back, his nostrils flaring ever so slightly.

Oh God.

Stiles is going to be eaten. He’s going to die horny and scared. And then there will be no one around to stop his dad eating himself into an early grave. He looks up at Derek, mournfully taking in the brilliant green of his eyes, his chiselled jaw, and feels like his heart is gonna pound out of his chest. He feels sick. For one horrifying moment he can’t even remember what he’s supposed to be doing.

Derek stares back at him, expression unreadable. “Did you want something?” he asks gruffly.

Just like that it all comes flooding back. Lydia’s party. If Derek goes then Scott can go too and maybe hang out with Allison. Stiles is supposed to be facilitating this, like the best friend in a low budget teen movie.

“Yes--um, yes.” Stiles clears his throat, tries to swallow. Can’t. “I uh— Lydia Martin is a girl who goes to this school. You know her. Everyone knows her. Right. Har har. So. There’s a party next Friday at her place. And lots of people are going. Like me! I’m going. And Scott. Scott would definitely— but I was wondering if you. Because if you don’t. If um—” Stiles scuffs the toe of his sneaker against the tiled floor, chin tucked to his chest. This is going terribly. He should start again. “Ok. You see the thing is—uh.”

“Sure,” Derek says. “I’ll pick you up at eight.”

“Um. That isn’t--” Stiles looks up at him wide-eyed. Blinks twice. Then, just on principle says, “What if _I_ want to pick _you_ up at eight?”

At his words Derek inclines his head to one side, watching him intently. “Fine,” he says, “Then you pick me up at eight. You know where I live.”

“Right.” Stiles swallows. “Right. But— ok. So. You. Right. Um. I wasn’t— Erm.”

“Ok. Later, Stilinski.” With that he turns to leave.

“Stiles,” Stiles calls a beat later. “You can call me Stiles.”

At that, Derek just lifts a hand in acknowledgement and continues down the hallway, leaving Stiles to collapse against the nearest wall, sinking down to the floor.

He isn’t a hundred percent sure what just happened, but he thinks he just accidentally asked out Derek Hale.

And Derek Hale said yes.

There’s no time for the impending panic this realization brings, though, because at that precise moment the bell rings for class.

 

-

 

Stiles doesn’t know what to do with himself for the rest of the day. Even Principal Finstock making a way too detailed announcement about the frozen human remains that had been found in the preserve last night, and warning them to avoid the preserve until the frost giant is caught, can’t get Stiles’ brain to turn off the endless loop of: What the fuck just happened? Derek Hale, seriously? That keeps playing in his head.

Stiles can’t focus, can’t even begin to work out what he’s gonna say to Scott beyond: “Derek’s gonna be there.”

Not that Scott presses for more information when Stiles eventually says exactly that as they’re walking across the school parking lot together at the end of the day.

No.

He doesn’t ask any questions about how Stiles accomplished the impossible.

He just seems happy that he’ll get to go too and make eyes at the mysterious Allison.

“So wait, are you gonna ask her to go with you?” Stiles asks.

“To the party? Like a date?” Scott gulps. “Wait, do you think I should?”

“Duh. Yeah. Definitely.” Which is kind of a bold move for relative nobodies on the school social scene like them, but Stiles has seen the way he and Allison look at each other: Scott’s gonna be fine.  
  
Besides, the truth is he and Scott can’t show up to this shindig together, like they usually would, because thanks to Scott’s machinations Stiles has somehow managed to finagle a date with the scariest (and hottest) guy in school.

It’s just possible their stock is rising.

“Right. Yeah. I could ask her,” Scott says. “Maybe my mom would let me borrow the car.”

“Yeah!”

“It’ll be, like, a date.”

“Exactly. You should totally do that.”

“Right, ok.” He scrubs the flat of his palms over his jeans. “Yeah. Totally. I’m gonna do it now.” He glances across the lot to where Allison is standing next to Jackson’s Porsche, chatting with Lydia and the rest of that clique.

“Go on then.”

“I’m going.”

“Good.”

“Right now.”

“Excellent.”

“Like, this instant.”

“Yay!”

“Nothing can go wrong.”

“It’s unlikely.” Stiles grins. “I mean what’s the worst that could happen?”

“Don’t say that shit.” Scott reaches out, clutching Stiles, fingers digging into the meat of his forearm. “So much can go wrong and if you say shit like that the worst _will_ happen.” Scott has always been very superstitious.

“You’re gonna be fine,” Stiles croons. “Go on, you can do this. You are a strong, confident werebeing. She’d be lucky to have you. You don’t shed on the carpet anymore, and you haven’t tried to eat my shoes in ages-”

“That was one full moo-- You’re an asshole.”

“Aww, boo. I’m your asshole. Wait. No.” Stiles makes a face. “That sounded better in my head. Just go ask out the pretty girl.”

Scott takes a deep breath. “Right,” he says. “Ok.”

He’s back five minutes later, grinning from ear to ear.

“She said yes!” he crows, punching the air with his fist.

“Yeah she did, buddy,” Stiles says, beaming as he slaps him on the back.

It occurs to Stiles that for the first time in the history of ever there’s gonna be a cool party, and he and Scott aren’t just going, but have both somehow ended up with dates.

Maybe the universe doesn’t hate him after all.

  
-

 

It’s only when Stiles gets home later that evening, after he’s jerked off to the memory of Derek’s razor sharp cheekbones, and kaleidoscope eyes, that it occurs to him: it’s too good to be true.

After all, even he can’t pretend that the way he asked Derek ‘out’ was anything other than fucking disastrous.

What if this is some kind misunderstanding? Or maybe Derek was taking pity on Stiles. Or maybe, Stiles thinks, stomach swooping low, this is some kind of elaborate prank designed to humiliate him somehow.

After all, there’s no way-- no goddamn reason for Derek Hale to have said yes to him. Is there?

Stiles is just the scrawny, geeky, spark who destroyed one of the magic labs last week with a spell gone awry.

He’s the motormouth guy with a 4.0, who once tripped over his shoelace and gave himself a black-eye with his own lacrosse stick.

There’s no reason for Derek Hale to suddenly agree to date him.

Is there?

No.

There has to be another reason. There has to be something. Some ulterior motive, some necessity driving Derek _sexy wolf god_ Hale agreeing to go to a party with him. Something like--

Oh god.

Maybe the Hale pack need Stiles for some kind of freaky deaky werewolf ritual. The frost giant on the loose for the last month has caused chaos, and as the alpha of the territory, Talia’s been trying to deal with it. Perhaps they need his magic or-- maybe the Hale pack have discovered some ancient piece of lore in an old grimoire which states that the only way to get rid of a frost giant is for the son of the alpha to devirginalize a spark, and that’s why Derek said yes.  
  
Fuck.

On the night of the party he’ll probably get Stiles to drive them out to that one make out point on the edge of the preserve and then claim to hear a noise and try and convince Stiles to help him investigate-- and then BOOM! Kinky magical sex ritual in the woods, that will probably drain Stiles of his powers and leave him a dried out husk. He’ll never get the hang of invocation. He’ll get eaten by an angry frost giant. Or, worse, he'll have to go to a mundane school.

That’s it. That’s totally it. He’s sure of it.

The whole pack is probably in on it-- except no.

There’s no way Scott would go along with that.

Or at least-- Not knowingly.

But how much does Scott pay attention really? Since Allison came along he’s basically had a one track mind.

Oh fuck. Stiles is gonna be taken out into the woods and used as Derek Hale’s personal chew toy in the name of taking down a frost giant. He’s gonna get pinned down and mauled in sexy, sexy ways.

Shit.

It’s probably really uncomfortable to have sex in a forest, what with the roots and twigs and the stones.

Stiles bruises like a peach too, not to mention he’s allergic to basically ever insect known to man, and Derek’s so big-- he better bring lube, they’re gonna need so much lube. They’re gonna--

He’s in the middle of catastrophizing, no, fantasizing --well, some combination of the two, because of the aforementioned fucked fear responses-- when there’s a knock at his bedroom door. He snatches his hand out of his underwear and shoves a pillow across his lap, sits up a little straighter in the bed, and tries to settle his breathing.

“Come in, uh--” He clears his throat and then says a little deeper, a little less manic. “Come in.”

“Son,” his dad says as the door swings open. He comes into the room and stands, arms crossed, leaning up against the door frame; he doesn’t mention the position of the pillow, and Stiles is grateful. “How was school today?”

“School? School was--” Stiles shrugs. “It was good. I guess. Well. Maybe not good. I mean it was school. It was ok. Nobody died. Har har.” Stiles clears his throat. “I mean I handed that one Chem report in? And I-- didn’t blow anything up?” At that, his dad’s eyes narrow, and Stiles doesn’t know why he said that. It’s too soon to be making those kinds of jokes after the phone call his dad received last week from Principal Finstock.

“Good to know.” His dad watches him, lips slightly pursed, like he’s waiting for Stiles to say something else.

“How was your day?” Stiles tries, after a beat.

“My day was good.” He stares at Stiles. Significantly. “Anything else you want to tell me about _your_ day?”

“Um. I don’t think so?”

“Really?”

“Yup?”

“Because I saw Talia at the grocery store just now.”

“Talia?” Stiles says, like he’s confused, like he doesn’t _know_ . There’s only _one_ Talia who counts in Beacon Hills and they both know it.

“Talia Hale. The alpha.”

“Ok?”

His dad raises one eyebrow. “Nothing you think she might’ve said or--?”

“I mean--” Stiles gulps. “Uh--”

With a sigh his dad crosses the room and takes a seat on the end of Stiles’ bed.

“For god’s sake, son, get that look off your face. She’s just happy one of you finally did something.”

“Um--did something?”

“Yeah.” He nods uncomfortably. “I mean, I’m not blind, son. This has obviously been brewing for a while. Born wolves being what they are, I’m surprised it took this long.”

“Eh?”

“Gotta say--” His dad exhales, and his grin is rueful, but also kind of proud. “I didn’t peg you as the one who would make the first move. Never underestimate the Stilinski men, huh?” He reaches out and gives Stiles’ ankle a reassuring squeeze.

“Wha--?”

It’s possible Stiles has slipped into some kind of mirrorverse.

“I guess what I’m saying is, you don’t have to hide this from me, ok? I approve.” He pats Stiles on the ankle one last time and then rises to his feet. “Invite him round for dinner next week. I wanna meet him, properly.”

Stiles looks about himself as his dad leaves the room, shutting the door behind him.

“What the fucking fuck is going on?” he mutters to himself.

  
-


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woohoo! Finally here, it took longer than I thought, because I did some extensive rewrites. But yeah! I hope you enjoy.
> 
> THanks so much for all the wonderful comments on the last chapter. They meant the world x

“So, uh--” Stiles is playing it cool.

Ice cold, baby.

He sidles up to the kitchen counter and leans against it nonchalantly, trying to ignore the static charge of magic under his skin that’s making the hairs on his arm stand on end. “So-- me and Derek, huh. You’re really--uh, ok with it.”

His dad looks up in surprise from where he’s sitting at the kitchen table reading over a police file. It looks kinda grizzly, must be the most recent victim of the frost giant. Stiles tries not to look too interested. Sighing, his dad closes the file, and pushes his reading glasses up his nose. “Yeah, of course. Why? Did you think I wouldn’t be?”

“I--” Stiles pauses, not sure how to continue. “Really didn’t know.” _Anything, apparently_ , his brain adds treacherously.

“Well. I’m fine with it.”

“Yeah. Hmm. Yeah. Um.” Stiles nods, slowly, feigning a casualness he absolutely does not feel. “Just out of interest. When did you-- ah-- become-- fine. With it?”

“You mean, when did I know there was something going on with you two?” His dad raises one eyebrow.

“Exactly!”

“I don’t know, a few months back. When was that first blue moon party at the Hales place?”

“April?”

“Yeah. April.”

“But-- how?”

“Well, son,” he says drily, dipping his head so he can stare at Stiles over the rim of his reading glasses. “Maybe it’s something to do with the way the guy drove you home from that party because you were ‘tired.’” He makes the air quotes and Stiles’ stomach drops. The blue moon in April-- night of his first and last foray into the exciting world of underage drinking.

Stiles shuts his eyes, grimacing, and presses his middle and index fingers to his forehead, massaging small circles. “Oh my god,” he hisses. “I _knew_ you knew about that.”

There’s the scrape of his dad’s chair moving back against the tiled floor, and when Stiles opens his eyes again his dad is leaning back, arms folded behind his head-- a huge grin on his face. “Derek’s a terrible liar, it’s one of the reasons I approve of this whole thing. Plus, it was kinda sweet how concerned he was for you. Had you all tucked up in bed, and brought you water. Looked like a rabbit caught in the headlights when I arrived home early. And of course, I had a lot of fun watching you pretend not to be hungover the next day.”

“You blared Wake Up Boo at 6.30 in the morning outside my room. You suggested we have fresh fruit for breakfast, because it would be good for your cholesterol, and then you asked me to go running with you.”

“All good for my heart. I know how much you worry. I wanted you to know I was taking my health seriously.”

“I could have died,” Stiles says, with feeling. It’d felt like he was dying at the time, staggering along behind his dad, head throbbing, stomach roiling-- mulishly refusing to admit that anything was wrong.

“We only ran round the block. And now you know all about the perils of drinking.”

“You couldn’t have sat me down and had the awkward conversation? Like a normal parent?”

“Hey, at any point you could have admitted the truth, and we would've stopped. I was amazed you kept going-- and also weirdly proud.”

“You shoulda known. The famous Stilinski stubbornness comes from you.”

"Derek doesn't know what he's getting himself into."

Derek.

Who had driven Stiles’ home, put him to bed, brought him water and tried, ineptly, to lie to Stiles’ Dad.

Stiles’ dad, who apparently thinks there’s been something going on between them for months.

And suddenly his brain pings to Scott, and how cagey he’d been over why he wanted Stiles to be the one to speak to Derek about Lydia’s party in the first place. It’s almost like--well, like Derek might actually--

The toaster oven on the counter next to Stiles explodes with no warning.

His dad doesn’t even jump, just turns to look at the smoldering wreck with a long suffering sigh.

“Sorry,” Stiles says, flailing. “Sorry. I’ll--”

“Mr. Deaton start those extra meditation sessions with you yet?” his dad asks. “Because ever since that incident in the magic labs a couple weeks back, this seems to be getting worse.” He gestures at the ruins of the toaster oven.

“Yeah--He-- I’ll speak to him.”

“You better.”

  
-

 

The lights in the room are dimmed and soothing music plays _plinkety plunk plink_ in the background. The walls are stark white, the floor polished wood. Across from Stiles, Deaton sits in lotus pose, his eyes shut. There’s an incense stick burning off to the left, jasmine, or something. It’s making Stiles’ nose itch, and he sneezes.

“Try to relax,” Deaton says, without opening his eyes.

“Yeah. Ok.” Stiles cracks his neck and repositions his hands again, trying to center his third eye by closing his other two.

Oh god. His ear feels itchy.

Valiantly he tries to ignore it.

The itching sensation gets worse. Without moving his hands or opening his eyes he tilts his head, and tries to rub his ear against his shoulder.  
  
Ahhhh. That feels good.

“Focus inward,” Deaton says, in that toneless, calm way he has. “Allow your magic to flow within you, become one with it.”

Flow. Ugh. Deaton makes it sound like magic is some kind of peaceful river, which has never been Stiles’ experience at all. At best his magic seems to be a static charge under his skin-- at worst, it’s a thunderstorm.

It’s no good. Stiles can’t get his mind to settle. He takes a deep breath and squints one eye open. Opposite him, Deaton is still serene. Ever since the explosion in the lab last week, Stiles’ magic has been fitful, anxious. Deaton, who teaches Magical Studies at BHHS, had insisted on shoehorning mandatory meditation sessions into Stiles’ lunch hour in an effort to get his magic back under control again. But focus and control are impossible, there’s too much going on-- what with the frost giant, and the mystery of Allison, and now the whole Derek debacle--

Overhead, one of the dimmed lights starts to flicker wildly. Stiles scrunches his eyes shut, trying to tamp down the sudden surge of anxiety.

A second later, every light in the room explodes in a shower of glass. In one fluid motion Deaton lifts a hand, opening his eyes. Hundreds of little glass shards hang suspended in mid air. He makes another gesture and they all gather into one place, zip across the room and hover over the trash can. With one last sweeping downward motion from Deaton they drop.

“Open the blinds, please, Stiles.” Deaton says, without getting up.

“Yeah. Uh. Ok.” Stiles scrambles up and skids across the polished wood floor on socked feet. Yanking the cord on the blinds, he blinks as sunlight streams through the open window.

When he looks back, Deaton is standing too, and watching him impassively.

“Sorry,” Stiles says.

Deaton raises one eyebrow.

“About the--” Stiles gestures at the now empty light fittings. “I just-- I can’t seem to keep it in check any more. I was doing so well, and now--” He shrugs hopelessly.

“It is not uncommon at your age to experience a-- regression, especially in someone with your potential,” Deaton says eventually, seeming to take pity on Stiles. “Up until now you have managed to control your abilities through fairly standard meditation techniques, but we are reaching a critical stage. In the coming weeks you will need to identify a more personalized focus for yourself.”

“Focus.”  
  
“A witch has their familiar. A werewolf their anchor. Something which helps them control and manage their power.”

“So a focus is like a magical object, or a person, or--?”

“Yes.” Deaton nods. “Like that.”

“Well. How will I know when I’ve found it?”

“You will know.”

“Huh. Helpful. Great.”

“Until then, I expect you to keep meeting with me at lunchtimes for meditation.”

“But--” The look on Deaton’s face brooks no argument. Stiles’ shoulders slump. “Ok.”

There’s a static noise that makes them both jump, and then Principal Finstock’s voice blares over the intercom. “Students and staff of Beacon Hills, I have an announcement. The Sheriff’s department have been in contact with me to say that there has been another attack in the preserve, and in light of that fact we are--” He releases a shuddering sigh. “--gonna have to cancel the critical lacrosse game against Hermosa Beach. Now. I know. I know you’re all disappointed about that-- and God knows I am too, but this is life, we have to deal with the disappointment and come out stronger.” He pauses, and when he speaks again, his voice cracks with barely restrained emotion. “Nobody is gonna hit as hard as life. But it ain't about how hard you hit. It's about how hard you can get hit and keep moving forward. How much you can take and keep moving forward. That's how winning is done! So we as a school are gonna take this disappointment on the chin. We are gonna regroup-- and once this frost giant bastard has been taken out-- we will return to fight Hermosa Beach, and by god-- by god, we will win!”  
  
There’s the sound of whooping and cheering from the hallways outside. Squinting up at the intercom, Stiles says. “That sounded familiar.”

“Rocky 6,” Deaton says, blandly. “Principal Finstock is a big fan.”

“Oh.”

 

-

“Hey,” Stiles says as he slides into the seat next to Scott in English Lit, later that day, where, fortunately, their teacher is running late. “I have to talk to you about--”  
  
“Hey,” Scott says, steamrolling over him. “Thank god you’re here. I was wondering, do you think Allison would--”

“Uh-uh. No. I have a bone to pick with you.” Stiles glares at him.

“What?”

“Does Derek like me? As in, does he _like_ me?” Earlier that day Stiles had caught Derek staring at him in the History of the Supernatural class they share, although he’d looked away quickly when Stiles had met his gaze and offered him a quick, nervous wave. So while Stiles thinks he knows the answer, he wants to hear Scott admit it-- wants to be sure.

There’s a weighty silence. Scott’s wincing, he looks like he’s braced for a crash.

“Oh. My. God,” Stiles says feelingly. “Oh my god. You totally pimped me out to Derek so that you could hang out with Allison at Lydia’s party.”

“No! No. I knew you liked him too.”

“No you didn’t!”

“Yes I did.”

“No you didn’t.”

“Dude, I can smell--”

“No! No. That is not ok. Sniffing me is not the same as asking me. You crossed a line. Oh my god.”

“But--”

“Bad wolf. No treats for you.”

There’s a moment of uncomfortable silence. Then Scott says, “But Derek is so obviously into you.”

“Is he though?” Stiles asks, because despite the evidence that’s accruing rapidly, he still can’t quite believe it. “Is he? I mean how did you-- has he told you that he--? Did he use actual words?”

“No.”

“Then how can you possibly know? Did you break into his room and read his diary, or--”

There’s another silence. Longer. Guiltier. Eventually Scott says, “I don’t want to say.”

“Oh my god,” Stiles says, “You sniffed it out on him too, didn’t you?”

“Kinda?”

“Kinda? Kinda!?”

“Well, I mean, it isn’t just the smell. It’s sorta obvious. Everyone knows.”

“Not everyone.”

“But--”

“Not everyone. I didn’t know!” Stiles hisses. “How can everyone know if I don’t know?”

“Well I don’t know _how_ you don’t know! He’s the one who raced into the magic lab when you exploded it the other week, and carried your unconscious body to the nurses office. Bridal style.”

“He what?” Stiles squeaks. “Oh my god! Like I’m some swooning damsel in a drugstore romance novel.” Stiles is picturing the cover. Derek’s bare chest-- his muscles, those abs, smoldering eyes, his thick arms cradling Stiles in-- Never mind. “But-- But I thought--”

Honestly he doesn’t know what he thought.

“He was really worried, too. He kept asking about you. He texted me like five times after they sent you home, just to make sure you were ok.”

“Oh my god.” Stiles lets his head thunk against his desk. “This is not good.”

“Why?”

“Because. Because it’s embarrassing.”

“Why is it embarrassing? He likes you.”

“Yeah, but-- ok. Why didn’t he say something?”

“Eh.” Scott frowns. “It’s Derek. He’s-- y’know.”

“Clearly I don’t.”

“He’s--” Stiles can virtually _hear_ Scott’s shrug. “Awkward around people. And-- kind of a dick? But also weirdly shy about some stuff.”

“Awkward? Shy? He’s terrifying. He’s huge. Tall. Like a tree. An angry tree. With eyebrows. It’s like Bert from Sesame Street had a kid with the whomping willow.” Somebody needs to write that fanfic, he thinks to himself, making a mental note. That's a rare pair that no one's ever thought of. Another genius idea, Stilinski.

“What’s a whomping willow?”

“Ugh. You need to read Harry Potter. I swear to god. It’s a tree. Obviously.”

“So,” Scott says cautiously, after a beat, “If he’s a tree, is he a tree you want to climb?”

“Maybe!” Stiles snaps, still annoyed. He’s so fucking pissed right now he can feel his magic simmering just below the surface and takes a moment to just breathe. He can’t afford to damage any more school property today. His dad will kill him. “I guess.”

“Aha! Scott says sounding smug. “See! I was right.”

“Maybe. It doesn’t change the fact that I’m mad at you.”

“But whhhhhy?”

“Because! You were a dick. You were only thinking about yourself. You got me involved because it suited you, not because you cared about whether it would make me or Derek happy.” And that’s the truth of it right there. Since Allison came on the scene Scott has become obsessed.

Maybe she _is_ a veela. Stiles is really gonna have to research that.

Scott’s shoulders drop, mouth hanging open. When he speaks again he says, crestfallen, “Oh god. You’re right. I am a dick.”

“A huge dick! With saggy old man balls and weird pubes.”

“Oh god, Stiles, I’m sorry. I’ll--” Scott sounds genuinely contrite. “You don’t have to go-- I won’t go to the party. I’ll speak to Derek. I’ll clear things up. I'll-”

“No,” Stiles says irritably. “Stop. I want to go with him. Clearly I want to go.”

“You do?”

“He’s a hot tree, right? With a crush on me, who can’t stop rescuing me. I just have to-- fuck. I don’t know. Geeze. Just. Tell me a bit more about him. I need to try and speak to him. And you’re gonna give me the lowdown after class. Hobbies. Interests. Stuff I need to know about werewolf courtship, and born wolves in particular. All of it.”

Scott nods vigorously. “Ok. Ok. You got it.”

 

-

 

Perhaps in an effort to make things up to Stiles, Scott carefully doesn’t speak about Allison for the rest of the day, and Stiles has to admit-- he kind of appreciates it. Instead, Scott spends his time answering every question Stiles can think of on Derek and werewolf courtship-- no matter how weird or wonderful.

That’s how he finds out Derek likes reading, and golden age Hollywood movies, and baseball. Sure, he’s a Dodgers fan, but, Stiles reasons, it could be worse-- he could like the Yankees. Nobody’s perfect.

It still isn’t enough to sate Stiles’ rampant curiosity though, so when he gets home he locks himself in his room and fires up Google, ready to launch himself head first into the darkest recesses of the internet in a quest for knowledge.  
  
It’s the whole born wolf thing that’s intriguing him the most, now. Stiles’ dad had kind of hinted round it in their initial conversation and thanks to that, Scott’s stumbling explanations, and his own forays into Google, he discovers that dating for born wolves is a big thing.

Like, huge.

Apparently the instincts aren’t as strong in bitten wolves like Scott (although if Scott’s Allison Argent obsession is anything to go by, Stiles reckons the so-called experts may be wrong about that).

With born wolves though, there are mates. Like. Actual mates. Which, as far as Stiles can work out, is this one true love kinda deal. On the forums he looks at there’s a lot of talk about the importance of scent, and finding someone who promotes harmony between both the human and wolf sides, and protectiveness, and life-long commitments and... knotting. (That inspires another confused half horny/half afraid jerk off session-- which Stiles senses is gonna become a thing for the foreseeable future.)

The point is, slowly, oh so slowly, Stiles is coming round to the idea that Derek may actually like him.

He thinks the only way to be certain though, is to ask the guy. Sure, according to Scott, Derek can be awkward and shy (Stiles isn’t convinced about that last one), but Stiles is awkward too. Perhaps if their awkwardness collides head on it’ll combine, resulting in something greater than the sum of its parts. Like two negatives making a positive. An epic kind of-- unawkwardness? 

Anyway, it’s not really a plan, exactly. But it’s the best he has.

Stiles and Derek actually have algebra together tomorrow, although they don’t sit anywhere near each other. Still, that’s probably the best place for Stiles to try and talk to him; maybe he can get someone to swap seats.

 

When he arrives at school the next day, Stiles seeks out Isaac Lahey, who’s skulking in the shadows of the library stacks, and asks if they can swap seats so that Stiles can be the one sitting directly in front of Derek in Algebra. Isaac hisses, baring needle like fangs-- but Stiles offers to buy him a blood pouch from the vending machine at lunch time. And, eventually, throwing his scarf dramatically over one shoulder, Isaac relents- then melds back into the shadows of the stacks with an intense glare.  
  
God. Vampires are the fuckin’ worst.

 

Anyway, that’s how Stiles finds himself in Algebra later that day, sitting in a seat that is not his own, fidgeting nervously as he balances on the back two legs of his chair. One arm rests against Derek’s desk to help him keep balance, and Stiles’ fingers drum restlessly against the wood.

Derek isn’t here yet.

Why isn’t he here?

Stiles is sure he saw him this morning.

His eyes dart up to the clock. Any minute now Mr. Harmon is gonna arrive, and then Stiles isn’t gonna have the chance to--

There’s the sound of a throat clearing, and Stiles jerks his head up to see Derek standing over him, eyes locked on where Stiles arm is resting on his desk.

This is it.

Show time.

Stiles takes a deep breath and tries to smile. “Hey!” he says, and then his brain stops working.

Oh god.

What does he say now?

He had a plan.

He worked out exactly what he was gonna say.

He just needs to remember it.

Shit.

What are words, again?

“Hey.” Derek’s tone is gruff. “You don’t normally sit here.”

“I got Isaac to swap with me. I-- uh.” He takes the plunge. “I wanted to-- to see if we could talk.”

“About what?” Derek places his backpack down carefully, and takes a seat. Despite his angry mountain man aesthetic, he seems strangely reluctant to meet Stiles' eye. Jaw clenched, mouth a tight line, like he’s mad at something-- mad at Stiles?

God.

Maybe everyone else is wrong.

Maybe he hates Stiles.  
  
Or, maybe he agreed to go to Lydia’s party out of pity.

The born wolf humoring the clumsy kid who keeps exploding things.

“About what?” Derek grinds out again.

“Stuff.” Stiles swallows, and wills himself calm. For once at least, his magic seems to be listening to him.

It occurs to him that if he does nothing else, he should thank Derek. Apparently the guy has had his back a couple times in the last few months.

“I wanted to say thanks,” he says. “My dad says you’re the one who brought me home from that blue moon party last April. I didn’t. Remember. That.” Oh god that sounds real bad.

Across from Derek shrugs, jaw ticking furiously.

“I thought it was Scott,” Stiles says.

At that Derek snorts. “Scott was wasted too.”

“Right.” Stiles offers him a small smile. “Well. I appreciate it.”

“That’s ok.”

They stare at each other, and Stiles has never met a silence he didn’t try and fill. “And I hear you took me to the nurse’s office a couple of weeks back when I--” He mimes an explosion with his hands, wobbling precariously on the back two legs of his chair. “--The magic labs. So thanks. For that too.” He flashes Derek what he hopes is a charming grin.

“You’re welcome.” Derek’s expression is Fort Knox. Eyebrows bunching. He looks angry. Or possibly confused. Or maybe embarrassed. It’s impossible for Stiles to read him.

 _Do you like me?_ Stiles tries to blast the question in Derek’s direction psychically. But that isn’t a power he possesses, and Derek just looks back at him, dark eyelashes stark against his cheek.

“Right,” Mr Harmon calls, as he strides down the little aisle formed by the desks. “Who’s ready for a pop quiz?”

Stiles isn’t listening though. He leans back on his chair even further on his chair, twisting his neck awkwardly, and whispers to Derek, “Hey, can we meet after class. I want to talk to you some more.”

Derek doesn’t respond immediately, eyes fixed straight ahead somewhere over Stiles’ shoulder.

“Please?” Stiles hisses. “I really--”

“Mr. Stilinski--” barks Mr. Harmon.

Stiles turns his head to look at the teacher. His shock at hearing his own name so unexpectedly has him flailing wildly, and he completely over balances on his chair and goes crashing to the floor, the back of his head catches on the corner of Derek’s desk as he goes down.

There’s a moment of shocked silence, during which Stiles blinks up at the ceiling, muzzily.

 _Ow,_ he thinks to himself. Then: _Shoot, I hope the chair’s ok._

He really, really can’t afford to break anything else in this school.

“Stilinski, are you ok?” Mr. Harmon’s voice is getting nearer.

A second later, Derek’s face hoves into view, as do the faces of a couple other students.

Shame burning in his stomach, Stiles tries to scrabble to his feet. “I’m fine!” he calls. “Totally fine. Completely--” He sways a little, head spinning. Something is trickling down the back of his neck. He dabs at it absently, only to notice when he pulls his hand back, that it’s now tacky, bright red, and, oh god--

“Is that blood?” he says blinking down at it. “I don’t-- Is that _my_ blood--” Two seconds late he keels over again in a dead faint.

Yeah. He’s never been good with blood.

 

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you leave kudos or a comment, then I am eternally grateful! Thanks so much <3 <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm baaaack. Fun fact, it was my birthday today. And I promised myself I would get this chapter out by today as a birthday gift to myself (and a thank-you for all the lovely birthday wishes I received on tumblr) So I hope it's ok??

When Stiles comes to again, Nurse Mendez is standing over him with a look of fond exasperation.

“Just can’t stay away, huh kiddo?”

“Oh my god—” Stiles says. “How did I get here?”

“Uh—” She scrunches her nose. “Guy. Super tall. Born wolf. Dark hair.” She scrunches her index fingers in front of her face and wiggles them. “Eyebrows.”

“Derek Hale.”

“Derek. That’s right. I never really get a chance to learn the names of the wolves.”

“Oh my god,” Stiles says, starting to sit up and then thinking better of it— he’s still a little muzzy headed. “Tell me he didn’t carry me in here.”

“I’d say it was more like he cradled you. Tenderly.” she says with a smirk. “And grumpily. He was very concerned.”

“Yes. So everyone keeps telling me.” Well. Everyone except Derek.

“Hmmm.” She peers down at him. “I did a quick suture charm on the cut while you were out. How are you feeling?”

“Ugh. Can I just hide in here for the rest of the day?”

She gives him a look. “Seriously. How are you feeling?”

“Mostly embarrassed.”

“Not in pain, then? Or sick?”

Stiles mentally pats himself down. “No? Not really. It’s a little sore, but—”

“You just caught the back of your head on the corner of the desk on your way down the first time. It was nothing much just a tiny nick.”

“It bled.”

“Heads do that. There’s a lot of blood in them. But it did stop bleeding, and apparently _Derek—”_ Here she cuts him a knowing look. “--caught you before you could hit the ground a second time. You know, when you fainted. At the sight of your own blood.”

Derek’s like his own personal superhero. Stiles doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He takes a deep breath and slowly sits up. The back of his head twinges, but nothing terrible. “Does my dad know?”

“Yeah. He’s on his way.”

“Oh god.”

“He’s gonna come take you home and keep an eye on you for the rest of the day, just in case you have concussion. So just rest. Don’t do anything crazy. Go to the emergency room if you start feeling sick or get blurred vision or-”

“But—”

“I’m serious. It doesn’t look like much, but better safe than sorry.”

“Ugh. It really is always me, isn’t it?”

She curls her lip and sighs. “I’m thinking of getting some kind of white board. I’ll write DAYS SINCE STILINSKI LAST INJURED and then we can just adjust the number depending on how long its been.”

“Very funny.”

“Reach ten consecutive days and I’ll give you some candy.”

“Hah. Make it three days and replace the candy with cash, and you have yourself a deal. What?” he says, when she shakes her head. “I’m trying to make sure it’s actually achievable, and appropriately motivating.”

“Nice try,” she says. “Now let me check you over properly, make sure you really are ok.”

 

-

 

He spends the rest of the day at home, gets fussed over and teased by his dad in about equal measure, and also receives at least ten texts from Scott who keeps checking in on him to make sure he’s ok. Scott also  volunteers to drive Stiles’ jeep home for him, because despite how distracted he’s been with Allison lately, he is actually a good friend. (Stiles had been driven home in his dad’s patrol car, because apparently life hasn’t been mortifying enough of late.)

The good news is, it turns out he doesn’t have concussion, which is fortunate. On balance, he’s grateful. He just wishes his magic would get on board with things. Three times that evening the TV turns into a staticky mess thanks to Stiles’ magic. They end up having to rewind the Bachelor— thank god for the age of streaming. His dad is stupidly invested in the show, and Stiles thinks he might have been disowned if they hadn’t been able to watch the result. It isn’t just the TV though. There’s also the moment when his dad asks how things are going with Derek just before bedtime and Stiles accidentally shatters his mug of cocoa. Literally. It explodes in his hand. (Fortunately it’s mostly empty by that point, but still).

As he tosses and turns in bed that evening, he tells himself it could be worse. Somehow. Probably. He could have been possessed by an evil spirit, or erased from history, or trapped as a character in a TV show with terrible writers who have a scant understanding of plot and care nothing for consistent characterization. Geez. That would be a real nightmare. He shudders thinking about it. He’s lucky to be here is what he is.

When he wakes the next morning he’s feeling more positive and ready to return to school.

Well. Not ready. Not really. But anything has to be better than being cooped up at home causing random objects to explode.

Besides, he lives in hope that if he goes in, he might be able to speak to Derek and try and work out what the fuck is going on— because something is. That’s for sure.

So Stiles scarfs down breakfast, then reassures his dad that he isn’t gonna injure himself or anyone else, or break anything today, and leaves early. When he arrives, he skulks around the lockers with intent, psyching himself up to have a terrifying and potentially mortifying conversation with Derek, but no dice: The dude doesn’t show.

True, later he does catch Derek staring at him from across the hall in between classes, but the moment he registers Stiles looking back at him, his gaze darts away— which means Stiles’ self-conscious half wave is wasted on thin air, and that’s a teensy bit soul-crushing.

It looks like Derek isn’t gonna approach him.

No change there then.

Shy. Awkward. Kind of an asshole. Those are the words Scott had used to describe Derek. If Scott is right and Derek likes him (and that’s still a big if, as far as Stiles is concerned), then it’s probably gonna have to be Stiles that makes the first move.

He has no idea what that move should be though. He does, however, have a free period before lunch, and he’s nothing if not motivated. So he goes to the library, finds a table buried near the back, between the stacks, and starts to brainstorm. Writes: DEREK: THE ULTIMATE PLAN!!! in block capitals on a crumpled notepad and underlines it five times in bright red sharpie.

Ten minutes later and he’s staring down at the same page, having come up with precisely zero plans and schemes— although he has sketched an impressive looking cock in the middle of the pad. It takes up most of one page. Suddenly, a shadow falls across the table. Stiles blinks up to find Allison Argent standing over him, smiling nervously.

“Hey,” she says.

“Hey, hi.” Stiles sits up a little straighter in his chair, and flips his pad over in a way that he’s sure appears totally cool, and not suspicious at all. “Uh. How are you?” he blurts. Then figures that’s a kinda weird, possibly even over familiar thing to say, given that they’ve never actually spoken to each other before- but it's too late now. It's out there.

“Good. Yeah. I’m good.” She clears her throat. “Is uh. Is anyone--” She gestures at the chair opposite him.

“No. You can totally-- Take a seat.”

She does, sitting down with the kind of grace and elegance that Stiles can never aspire to. It’s annoying really. “Stiles, right?” She says.

He nods.

“You're Scott’s best friend.”

“Yup. That’s me.”

“Cool.” She dimples as she smiles, and okay-- Stiles can kinda sorta see why Scott is so besotted.

When she doesn’t speak again he follows up with, “So-- uh-- how are you-- finding Beacon Hills?” Which is lame, but he has no clue what to say to her.

“It’s uh— good. Different than what I’m used to, but—” She shrugs.

Stiles wonders what she’s used to. “Where did you go before?”

“It was um. North. Of here, I guess.”

Which is a very odd way to phrase it. “North like Redding?”

“Um. Out of state, actually.”

“Huh.” Stiles puffs out his cheeks and releases a breath slowly.

“Hey. Are you ok?” she asks.

“What? Yeah! Of course. Why? Do I not look ok? Because I am. Fine. Excellent, in fact.”

“You’re shredding the edge of your paper.”

“Ahh.” He looks down at the torn scraps of paper, and the ragged edge. Under his skin, he feels his magic snap to attention. Tense and alert. “Nervous habit.”

“I make you nervous?”

“No! No. It’s just--” He sighs heavily. “Y’know--” He makes a sweeping gesture with one arm.

“Not really.”

Wrinkling his nose, he shoves his pen in his mouth and chews on it, considering her. Maybe he could ask Allison’s advice. She’s pretty and popular, and she seems nice. Sure she’s mysterious, and cagey about her past school, but she’s probably got experience dating people. More than Stiles or Scott at least. And Scott likes her-- which means she’s almost certainly a decent person. And sure it might be a bit of an overshare, but if she’s gonna date Scott, then she’s gonna have to get used to that. Oversharing comes with the territory. He removes the mangled end of his pen from his mouth and drops it to the table. With a deep sigh, he admits, “Honestly? I’m having some issues with my love life at the moment. Such as it is.”

“Awww,” she wrinkles her nose, and tilts her head at a sympathetic angle. “Did you and Derek argue?”

“Me and who?” Stiles splutters, sitting up straighter in his chair.

“Derek. Your boyfriend.”

“We’re not— he’s not my boyfriend.” All at once his magic snaps back, breaking like an overstretched elastic band; somewhere in the distance he hears a loud pop, there’s a sound of shattering glass and someone calls out in surprise. That’s probably another light bulb gone. He ducks his head and slithers down in his chair, trying to look innocent, or at least inconspicuous. The librarian, Ms. Randall, doesn’t like him at the best of times, he doesn’t want to get on her bad side.

Across from him Allison doesn’t seems to have noticed. Instead she shakes her head and blushes, flustered. “Oh. I--uh, he isn’t?” she says, “Sorry. I misunderstood.”

Stiles takes a deep breath, remembers the relaxation exercises he’s been working through with Deaton, and by sheer bloody-mindedness brings his magic back under control.

“Are you ok?” she asks.

He exhales shakily and leans forward. “Ok. But you thought we were dating? Me and Derek? Why? Why would you think that? I mean. You’ve literally been at this school a month.”

“I—” She spreads her hands, palms up. “Scott said--”

“Of course he did. Jesus, Scotty.” Slumping forward, Stiles rests his head on his folded arms.

“So, to be clear, you’re not dating him?”

“No,” Stiles says, but it comes out muffled because his head is still against the desk.

“But I thought you were going to Lydia’s party with him.”

Stiles head whips up. “How do you--”

“Scott?” She grins sheepishly.

“Oh my god.”

“Sorry. I didn’t realize it was a secret.”

“It isn’t. I guess. I just-- I’m not very-- um-- experienced at the whole _dating_ thing and I didn’t even mean to ask him to the party. It kinda happened on accident. Not that I don’t like him! I do, and sometimes I think he might like me back— Scott seems to think he does— says Derek’s shy. I mean, he doesn’t look shy.”

“Looks can be deceiving.”

“Hmmm.” Stiles still isn’t convinced- can’t seem to get passed the edges of his own insecurities to allow for the fact that someone else might have them too. “I just— I need to speak to him and like, clear the air. Make sure we’re both on the same page.”

“So why don’t you?”

“Well the last time I tried I ended up unconscious, so there’s that. But also, I don’t really know what to say?” Stiles shrugs. “Do I ask him if he likes me? Because if he likes me as much as people are saying, then why didn’t he tell me sooner? But then, if he doesn’t like me that way, why did he agree to go to the party with me? I mean, is it a case of mistaken identity? Has _he_ experienced any recent head trauma? Is it all a ruse so that he have sex with me in the woods to save the town?”

“Umm.” Allison’s eyes narrow, her mouth falling open. “Uh. Wha--Save the town?”

“I--” His eyes widen in horror, and then he sighs. “From the frost giant. That’s the most likely explanation I’ve been able to come up with for, y’know--” He gestures broadly. “Derek agreeing to—”

“By the Allfather,” she mutters, “But how would that--? You know what? Nevermind. Stiles.” She reaches out a hand and places it on his arm. “You’re spiralling. Why wouldn’t Derek want to date you?”

“Because I’m not the sort of person people date.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because I’m seventeen years old and no one has ever _wanted_ to date me--” He holds his hand up, as if to say ‘tada!’, and then lets them fall into his lap in despair. He wishes he were the kind of person people wanted to date. It must be great to be that guy.

“I'm sure that’s not true.” Allison says. “But even if it is, lots of people haven’t dated by the time their seventeen. Lots of people don’t really start dating until they hit college.”

“Exactly!” Stiles says, flailing. “And I was prepared for that. I was totally prepared to be a late bloomer. I was gonna go to college and hit my stride. Have all the kinky se--” He cuts himself off and presses his lips together, squinting at her. She looks like she’s trying not to laugh-- but not in a mean way. With a sigh he continues. “What I wasn’t prepared for, is the hottest guy in school potentially harboring a secret crush on me, ok? It’s weirding me out!”

“Ok.” She says. “Ok. So you definitely need to talk to Derek.”

“No shit, but what do I say? Do you _like_ me? That makes me sound kinda full of myself.” He rubs the back of his neck with one hand, ruefully. “Maybe I should write him a note.”

“A note like: Do you like me Yes/No? And he can circle the one that applies?” Her eyes are sparkling.

“Exactly! I can slip it in his locker door and he can reply, and we can avoid all the awkward conversations.”

“Why stop at a note? You could do a whole pop quiz for him. Do you want to have sex with me in the woods to save the town? Yes/ No.”

“You get what I’m saying,” Stiles says. “Have you recently hit your head? Yes/ No. Are you under the influence of any kind of mind control? Yes/No. Am I your mate? Do you have a knot?”

Oh god. Why does his mouth always betray him like this. He can feel himself blushing furiously.

“A knot?”

“It’s-- you know what? Never mind. Forget that last one. And _definitely_ don’t google it.”

She looks at him, one eyebrow raised archly. And he realizes in that moment she knows _exactly_ what he’s talking about. After a moment of awkwardness that stretches out between them for what feels like forever, they both burst out laughing.

Once they’ve both calmed down a little he says, “Look, here’s the deal. I like him, but I’m kinda worried that he either doesn’t like me back at all, or that maybe he likes me back more? And honestly? I’m not sure which is worse. I’ve done a lot of reading online, especially stuff about born wolves, and people have kinda hinted things and now I’m--”

“Overthinking? Panicking? Assuming the internet is a reliable source of information about the supernatural?”

“Maybe? All of the above? Is that an option?”

“Yeah, but the internet is full of shit. And besides, none of this is a substitute for speaking to him. Just be direct.”

“Direct.” Like it’s ever that easy.

“Yeah. Straightforward. Work out what you want, and then ask him what he wants. Be honest with him.”

“Honest.”

“It’s the best way.”

“But that’s so hard!” he whines.

“You can do it, Stiles. I have faith in you.”

“Well you clearly don’t know me at all.”

“Scott thinks the world of you. Says you’re the best guy he knows.”

“He’s biased. Besides, he stuck a crayon up his nose in kindergarten because I told him too. So—” He gestures to himself. “--not as great a guy as you think.”

She laughs. “I’m sure you’ve grown as a person since then.”

“Not really.”

"Wait," she cocks her head. "I thought Scott said you guys met freshman year of high school?" 

"I was trying to protect Scott's dignity, in front of the girl he--" Stiles sighs. "You couldn't let that one slide, huh?"

"A crayon stuck up his-- in his freshman year seriously?"

"It was a complicated dare involving a crayon, a gallon of ice-cream, and underwear-- on a flagpole."

"Maybe I don't wanna know."

"I feel like for the sake of me and Scott's epic friendship it's best that you don't."

“Well," she laughs. "Don’t get Derek to stick anything up his nose, or whatever, and-- be kind.”

“Yeaaaah. Kind isn’t really my thing. I’m more a bitch a lot about how stupid everyone else is while doing the right thing kinda guy.”

She heaves a sigh. “It’s like you’re determined this isn’t gonna work. The glass is always gonna be half empty, huh?”

“Well, first off, I prefer to think of myself as a realist. So the glass is at 50 percent capacity. Also, I know my own flaws.”

“Ok. Well, if you can’t be kind, at least don’t be a dick.”

“It’s like you’re determined to ask the impossible of me.”

She looks at him, lips pursed against a smile.

“How come you came over to sit with me anyway?” he asks, squinting at her. Because he has a suspicious mind that won’t switch off, and he’s spent too much time with his dad, and the deputies down at the station.

She looks a little guilty at that. “Do I need a reason?”

“No. But you have one.” He’s confident in that, just from the way she holds herself, and the expression on her face.

As he watches she runs her tongue over a top lip, and casts a look around them like she’s checking for eavesdroppers. Then she leans forward, lowering her voice. “Ok. Fine. Scott says you’re a spark.”

“Yeah? So?”

“So. I need your help with a spell.”

“A spell?”

“Sort of a spell. More like— an enchantment. Can you do that?”

“Huh. I mean. Yeah. Depends what it is, but maybe? My magic’s kinda hinky at the moment. What exactly do you have in mind?”

“Eh. I can’t really talk about it here.”

“Why not?”

“It’s kind of--uh risky, bordering on illegal.” She winces. “But the good news is, if we succeed, I think we can take down the frost giant.”

“Oh my god.” Stiles looks at her, not sure whether to be impressed or disturbed. “Either you’ve wildly overestimated our capabilities, or you’re secretly a badass.”

“There’s nothing secret about it.” She smirks then, just a little. It’s playful, but confident. “Are you in?”

“Uh.” There’s no way he wouldn’t be, his curiosity is piqued. Even if he doesn’t go through with it, he wants to know more. “Yeah. Definitely. What do you—”

“Meet me after school. You know the abandoned distillery on the outskirts of town?”

“Uh-huh.” That’s how all good plans start. Meet me in the abandoned building. Nothing can possibly go wrong. He wrinkles his nose.

“We’ll discuss what we need there,” she says.

“Look. You’re not gonna ritually sacrifice me or something, are you? Because I think we’ve already established that I am not up for that.”

“Nah.” She grins. “I only perform ritual human sacrifices to the elder gods every fourth Tuesday in the month. So you’re fine.” With that she gets up from her chair.

“I feel so much better now.” Strangely enough, he finds he isn’t lying. “Well. Uh. Should I bring anything with me?”

“Not this time,” she says, flashing him a dimpled grin.

It’s only when she’s gone that he realizes what that implies.

 

-

 

Maybe it’s the result of Allison’s pep talk, maybe it’s the fact that he’s now part of a potentially cool plan to bring down the latest big bad, but Stiles is feeling inspired. Confident, even.

He’s gonna do this.

He’s gonna talk to Derek.

They have Econ together fifth period, so, after the lesson finishes, he hangs around outside the door, waiting for Derek to leave too.

It takes a couple of minutes, because Ms. Ng decides to keep Derek back a moment to discuss a paper with him, but eventually Stiles’ patience is rewarded.

“Hey,” he says, as Derek walks through the doorway into the corridor.

Derek stops in his tracks and blinks down at him as the remaining few students push past them. “Hi.”

They both stare at each other. Stiles wets his lips with his tongue and wills himself not to say anything stupid. “So-- um. How. How are you?”

“Fine.”

“Good. Good.” Stiles says, nodding. “Excellent.”  
  
There’s another long silence. Derek shuffles foot to foot, then says, “Was that it?”

Holy shit. Stiles cannot with this guy.

“Oh my god, you are terrible at this,” he blurts. “How are you so--Sorry. Geez. Sorry. My bad.” Don’t be a dick, Allison had said. Stiles had, like, one job— and now he’s ruined it.

Derek takes a step back, jaw clenching. He looks murderous, but as Stiles squints up at him he can’t help but notice the tips of Derek’s ears are turning pink.

“Sorry,” Stiles says. “I just meant. Aren’t you gonna ask how _I_ am?”

“I--How are you?” Derek says stiffly, his expression is somewhere between pissed off and mortified, and Stiles thinks he kind of gets what Scott was talking about now: Derek is awkward as fuck. It’s kind of adorable really.

“I’m fine. I didn’t mean to make you feel—uh— but my head is fine. Thanks for the other day, by the way. For you know. With the—” He makes a gesture with his arms, like someone cradling a baby. Then looks down at what he’s doing and balks. “It doesn’t matter. Look. Can we talk? Maybe somewhere else. With a little more privacy or--”

“Like where?”

“I don’t know. Anywhere?”

Eyebrows furrowing Derek stares down at him, then, with a beleaguered sigh he grabs Stiles by the arm and strides off down the corridor, Stiles skipping after him in an effort to keep up.

“The janitor’s closet?” Stiles says, a couple minutes later, one eyebrow arched as he stares up at Derek, unimpressed.

“You said anywhere, and it’s private.”

“It’s tiny, especially with--” Stiles makes an abortive gesture which takes in all of Derek’s-- everything. They’re almost chest to chest, well-- head to chest-- Derek's tall after all-- and they're surrounded by walls of shelves filled with abrasive smelling cleaner and an abundance of buckets and mops stacked in one corner. A single electric bulb hangs overhead flickering and humming.

“You didn’t specify the size of the room.”

“I didn’t--You know what, nevermind. I wanted to ask you—” Stiles trails off. He has absolutely zero idea how to phrase this. “Do you--?”  
  
Nope.

He can’t say it.

He’s pretty sure Derek’s not gonna kill him, but he still can’t make himself say the _actual_ words.

Derek folds his arms across his chest. Biceps bulging. “Do I?”

Stiles clenches his jaw and hunches his shoulders; his  fingernails press into the palms of his hands. “Do you like me?” he asks, through gritted teeth.

“Like you?” Derek says blankly.

“Yeah. Like, _like_ like me.”  
  
“Do I _like_ like you?”

“Are you just gonna mirror every question I ask?”

“Am I?” The corner of Derek’s lip pulls up ever so slightly.

“Don’t be an asshole. Because honestly? At first I figured you agreed to go with me to Lydia’s party as some kind of pity thing, or whatever--” He’s not gonna bring up all his insane Derek related conspiracy theories. It isn’t a good look. He draws himself up to his full height, and tilts his head back a little so he can look Derek in the eye. Tries to gather the tattered shreds of his dignity around himself. “But then Scott may have implied that you— Anyway. Like I said yesterday. I’m-- It’s come to my attention that you— That there have been incidents. Where you’ve--” He swallows.

Derek’s expression has taken on that weirdly focussed look again. “Where I’ve what?” he asks.

“God, you’re really gonna make me say it again, aren’t you? The first blue moon party at your mom’s place. The accident in the magic lab last week. And now the thing in Algebra yesterday. You’re always with the-- And don’t get me started on the way you look at me.”

“How do I look at you?” Derek’s voice is quiet, gaze intense.

“You know how,” Stiles says softly.

At that Derek moves a little closer, and Stiles swallows. Derek’s so broad, he seems to fill all the available space, and he smells good. So good. Too good. It shouldn’t be allowed.

“You like me,” Stiles says.

“You’re the one who asked me out.”

Frustrated, Stiles bites down on the, ‘Not intentionally!’ that’s threatening to burst forth without his permission. Instead he meets Derek’s gaze steadily, says, “And you’re the one who said yes.”

At that, Derek swallows, gaze skittering away, before darting back up to meet Stiles’ eyes. “I did.”

“Right. Ok.” He isn’t misreading this. There’s no way. Slowly, with intent, he lifts himself up onto his tip toes, and leans in, presses a kiss to the side of Derek’s mouth, soft and dry. He reaches out, bracing one hand on Derek’s chest, and lifts the other tentatively, to rub his thumb along the high arch of Derek’s cheek, lets his eyelids flutter shut. All at once he can feel his magic singing, soaring like a symphony in his chest.

One of Derek’s arms slides around his waist, anchoring him. Holding him in place, and Stiles feels the deep, shuddering sigh as Derek inhales, the rasp of his stubble against Stiles’ cheek as he tilts his head and their lips finally meet. Soft at first, hesitant even. Stiles increases the pressure, slides his mouth against Derek’s with more confidence, and immediately Derek responds in kind.

“Oh,” Stiles says, when they finally break apart. His hand moves to touch his own lips, which feel tingly and a little numb. “Oh. Ok. Ok. So.”

“So.” Derek’s voice sounds hoarse.

“It wasn’t a pity thing.”

Derek shakes his head.

“You actually like me.”

Derek shrugs. “Yeah,” he grinds out, and he looks so fucking bashful Stiles wants to pinch his cheek. “For a while.”

“I like you too. At least, I’m attracted to you. Obviously.” That sounds bad, he hurries on— “And I like what I know of you, but I don’t feel like I know you so well, and that’s— that’s a thing for me. I’d like to fix that. Can we fix that?”

“Ok.”

“Ok.” Stiles smiles nervously. “So, can this party at Lydia’s place next Friday be, like-- an official first date? Not that it wouldn’t have been a date anyway, but I wasn’t sure why you’d even said yes to me. I didn’t know if we were on the same page, and now--”

“Now we are.”

“Yeah? I hope so?” Stiles gnaws at his bottom lip. Then nearly bites it, as the bell for class rings, shocking them both. “Ok,” he says. “We should go, but, uh— you should get Scott to give you my number. I want you to text me, ok?”

Derek nods. “Ok.”

Stiles grins. On impulse he reaches up and presses another kiss to Derek’s cheek. He’s flushed, he looks almost glassy-eyed and one of his hands is still clutching Stiles’ waist. As Stiles leans in, it tightens, keeping him close.

“I have to go to class.” Stiles murmurs apologetically.

“Right.”

“So uh—” Stiles taps Derek’s arm, and immediately he seems to come to himself, pulling it back, so that  Stiles can finally move away.

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine. It’s all— It’s all good.”

“Right.”

“Ok.”

Derek ducks his head to press a kiss to Stiles’ mouth again, and Stiles sighs and sinks back into him.

It’s a full five minutes later when Stiles finally rolls into class, late. His teacher gives him a detention.

He can’t bring himself to care.

That was totally worth it.

 

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been kind of overwhelmed by all the wonderful comments on this fic. So I just wanna thank you guys (and anyone who takes the time to leave kudos too). You guys are the true MVP's.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm baaaack! Finally! thank-you for you patience!

“Ok, ok,” Stiles says as he’s stuffing books into his bag from his locker at home time. “You gave Derek my number though, right?”

“Erm.” Scott looks at him. “Was I supposed to?”

Stiles all but drops his bag to the floor in frustration. “Yes!”

“But— I thought you were—”

“We made out in the janitor’s closet after fifth period.”

“Wow.” Scott blinks. “Ok. So why didn’t _you_ give him your number?”

“The bell went for class. There was no time.” No time for anything except more kissing, Stiles thinks to himself, a little smug.

“So why—”

“And then I got detention, because I was late for class— because I was making out with the hottest guy in school. In a closet.”

“Right. So—”

“So I told him to get my number from you.”

“Ah—”

“So you should do that now.”

“Now?”

“Yes now! Because I am not sitting through an hour long detention today without being able to text— In fact. Y’know what? Scratch that. I’ll take his number. That’s just easier. We should do that. Give me your phone.” Stiles reaches a hand out ready to plunge it into the front pocket of Scott’s jeans, but Scott sees it coming and hip swerves out the way.

“Woah! Woah! Woah!” he yelps, holding one hand up. “I’ll get my phone, Stiles, geeze.”

“Good,” Stiles says, “ok. Yeah. Good call.”

“Is this what I’m like with Allison?”

“Like what?”

“Obsessed? One track mind? No--”

“No respect for personal boundaries? Yeeaaaah. A little bit. Now I’m in the same boat though? Totally relatable, dude. I think you were positively restrained. Seriously. It’s been, like? What? Less than a week? Since I realized Derek might be interested and that I might be interested back? And already I think I’ve broken my dick.”

“Oh.” Scott’s face falls. “That. That is too much information.”

“There’s actual chafing. I mean—” Stiles leans in and says in a whisper. “--it’s sore, I’m worried I’m gonna get friction b--”

“Noooooo. No. No. No.”

“And I can’t stop thinking about him. About his whole— everything. Seriously. In my darker moments I’m not sure how I’m gonna get through this detention without one hand in my—”

“Oh. My. God. Please. Please shut up.”

“And then the flipside of that is— y’know, when I'm not," -he mimes jerking off- "is that I’m literally thinking about him constantly, and how amazing he is. And what he’s doing. And what he likes. It’s just this constant heartbeat that’s underneath everything, y’know? Like I’m doing it now. Right now.”

“Stiles.”

“Still. Right now.”

“Bu—”

“I’m so— god. It’s like in a cartoon where someone’s hungry and they visualize the other person as a ham? Except the ham is Derek. Derek is the ham. And I’m hungry. I am sooo hungry.”

“Might of guessed there’d be some kind of meat reference,” Scott mumbles, shoulders sloping in defeat.

Stiles relents a little. “My point is, I was too harsh on you about the Allison thing. Because I get it now. I totally get it. And yeah. You were kind of a dick. But like a totally relatable dick. Not one with saggy old man balls and weird pubes, like I said before, ok? That was harsh. That was ignorant. You’re better than that. You’re a quality dick. A dick after my own heart. The kind of dick anyone would be proud to get all up in their business, beautiful and uncut and big--” He spreads his hands like someone estimating the size of a fish.

“Please.” Scott lunges forward and slaps his hand over Stiles mouth. “Oh god. I’m begging you. Stop.”

Stiles’ eyes widen a little. It’s possible he’s gotten a little carried away. “Sorry,” he says, voice coming out muffled against Scott’s hand.

“I’ll give you Derek’s number,” Scott says, not moving his hand. “And we’re gonna forget this whole conversation ever happened. Well. We’re gonna try. I’ll probably be talking about it in therapy a couple of years from now, but—” He exhales a shaky breath. “We good?”

Stiles nods; slowly Scott releases him, and then reaches for his phone.

“You wanna tell me stuff about Allison?” Stiles asks meekly. “I’ll listen. It can be anything you want. Like really weird shit. Kinky. Or y’know. Whatever. The color of her eyes? How great she looks eating a taco? You wanna show me the picture you took of that one piece of toast, the one your mom burned. The one you thought looked like it had Allison’s face on it? Because I— I wanna see that again.”

Scott glances up from where he’s thumbing through screens on his phone. “You know? I feel I’ve grown a lot as a person in the last five minutes. So. I’m gonna say no? But thanks, bud.” He looks back down at his phone again. “Ok. I’m texting you Derek’s number.”

Stiles phone vibrates. Plucking it out of his pocket he looks at down at it and grins. “I love you, Scotty.”

“Yeah,” Scott grins at him, soft and a little doofy. “I know.”

Stiles scrunches his nose. “Did you just Han Solo me? You fucking flirt.”

 

-

 

**Hey**

_Who is this?_

**It’s me**

**Stiles**

When Derek doesn't immediately reply he adds:

**From the janitor’s closet???**

**Remember???**

Stiles slips his phone under his desk so that Mr. Harris can’t see it from where he’s slumped in his chair at the front of room, glaring out at the students with barely restrained resentment. A second later Stiles’ phone vibrates and he sneaks another look at it.

_Hi_

_Yes I remember_

Derek is a man of few words, apparently.

**I got your number from Scott**

That’s probably obvious. Or maybe it’s creepy? Possibly both. God. Crushes are a nightmare. After a moment’s hesitation, Stiles adds:  
  
**I hope that’s ok**

 _That’s fine_  
  
Derek replies almost immediately. Stiles stares at the screen, willing another text to appear. After what feels like an age passes, he types again:  
  
**I got detention for being late to class** **  
** **  
** **I blame you** **  
** **  
** He follows it up with six crying emojis. **  
** **  
** Almost immediately he suffers from texters regret and wants to pluck the texts out of the ether and delete them. He doesn’t know Derek that well really, and texts are naturally terse **,** even with emojis. God. What if Derek thinks he’s actually upset? What if Derek thinks he’s whiny? What if he hates Stiles now? What if— Stiles’ phone buzzes again.

 _Sorry_  
  
**I forgive you**

**Who am I kidding? There was nothing to forgive**

**It was totally worth it**

_Yeah?_  
  
**Definitely**

He waits a beat. Then can’t resist following that up with an unbelievably needy:

**Wasn’t it?**

_Well I didn’t get detention_

_So yeah_

_Definitely worth it_

Then Derek texts him a winky emoji. Goddammit. Stiles heart swells. He can feel his cheeks aching where he’s smiling so much.

**Unfair**

_What can I say? I was 10 minutes late to gym class but coach likes me_

Stiles is about to launch into a tirade about how jocks get it easy, and high school athletes have too much privilege when Derek follows up with:

_It would have been worth it though_

_Even if I got detention_

_And I’m sorry_

_That you did i mean_

_That sucks_

**Yeah**

**It does but**

“Mr Stilinski? Your phone?” Stiles jerks, hits send by accident as he looks up to see Harris standing over him and sighs. Grudgingly he hands his phone over. “You’ll get it back at the end of the detention,” Harris says with a mean smile, switching the phone off.

God. Stiles sighs, slumping in his chair and looking about himself at the other students. There’s, like, forty-five minutes left of detention, and he’s phoneless.

Ugh.

Disaster.

Thing is, without his phone to distract him, Stiles is left to complete homework (Ha! How he loves to joke with himself) or his own imagination (too dangerous: imagination leads to thoughts of Derek, thoughts of Derek lead to fantasies, and fantasies lead to inappropriate bonerville, population: Stiles.)

So, Stiles musters the considerable willpower of someone determined not to get an awkward boner in front of their asshole teacher and the ragtag assortment of students they find themselves in detention with. If thoughts of Derek are verboten though, then that means he’s gonna have to find something else to fixate on, and— well— it turns out that something is Allison.

Despite everything, he’s not entirely without preservation instincts, even if he is naturally curious and prone to accidentally exploding things. And while he’s, like, 90% sure that Allison isn’t evil, he still kinda wants to know more about her before he arrives at an abandoned building later that evening for a secret chat about how two high school students are gonna take on a frost giant that both local law enforcement and a pack of werewolves have failed to deal with.

So.

There must be clues. There must be something. Something she’s done. Something she’s said.

Something he’s observed about her.

Something that gives her away a little.

He’s replaying the conversation he had with her in the library over and over in his head, examining it from all angles when it hits him, and he sits up straight in his chair. Glancing at the clock at the far end of the room, he sees he has another half hour to go. A whole half hour before he can get to the library and do some basic research to confirm his suspicions— goddammit.  
  
With a beleaguered sigh, he leans forward in his chair, shifting restlessly. Taps his fingers against his desk, one leg bouncing, bouncing, bouncing.

Next to him Erica Reyes, mermaid, fellow detainee, and all around terrifying badass, turns her head slowly to stare at him one eyebrow arched threateningly. Stiles grins the slightly manic grin of someone who very much enjoys having their balls attached to their body and stops bouncing his leg immediately.

Erica shakes her head and turns away, goes back to— Stiles cranes his neck to take a look— writing Vernon Boyd’s name on a piece of scrap paper?  A piece of paper that she’s decorating with hearts? That’s— uh. He glances up again to see her glaring at him again, her teeth bared and the venomous spines on her neck starting to rise, scales shimmering just under the surface of her skin.

Oh.

Oh shit.

Ah.

Swallowing, Stiles smiles in a way he hopes is apologetic, and also in a way which he hopes conveys that:

  1. Boyd is a super attractive half dragon guy.
  2. Erica has excellent taste
  3. Stiles isn’t gonna mention this whole thing to anyone _ever_



And:

     4. He’s sorry and he really likes his balls attached to his body and not turned into a small purse.

No, large.

Not small.

And maybe not a purse?

A large backpack. No. Wait. That’s worse. Nobodies balls are that big. That would be freakish.

 _I have normal sized balls,_ he thinks aggressively in Erica’s general direction, with a slightly manic look. _I like them where they are. I’m super sorry. Please don’t hurt them._

It seems to work, because she turns away from him, but this time she angles her body so that her back is to him, curled protectively over her paper, and he’s left alone to his own thoughts.

An uncomfortable half hour passes, during which Stiles feels like he’s gonna vibrate out of his own skin with the effort of sitting still, but eventually Harris lets them go. After Stiles gets his phone back, he jams it in his back pocket and races to the library without a second thought.

Striding through the doors, burdened with glorious purpose, he bypasses the books on the mundane subjects— Chemistry, Math and the like. Then strides past the magic books with their thick spines and their musty, leather bound covers, and heads straight toward the back, where he knows they have a small section on European mythology.

“There you are—” he mutters to himself, as he reaches out to pluck a slim volume from the shelves.

He’s gonna give himself half an hour to research. Then he’s gonna finishing that half-eaten bag of Cheetos that are stored in the glove compartment of his Jeep, and then he’s gonna go meet Allison.

Gotta love a man with a plan.

 

-

 

“So you’re a valkyrie,” he says as he strolls through the doorway into the abandoned distillery later that day.

Early evening sunshine streams through grimy windows, illuminating dust motes in the air. Allison looks up from where she’s standing palms resting against a large work bench, studying something that’s spread out on it.

“Yes.” She squints at him. “How did you know that?”

“By the Allfather? That’s what you said in the library. After that I just started to—” he clicks his fingers a few times, ending on a shrug. “--Put things together.”

She winces. “Goddammit. I was doing so well.”

“Why the big secret?”

“It’s— not a secret exactly, Principal Finstock knows— at least he knows what I am, not why I’m here. Just—” She sighs. “It’s easier if it’s not general knowledge.”

“So you’re here for the frost giant?”

“Jötunn.” She wrinkles her nose. “Three of them escaped to Midgard, sorry, Earth, and my sisters and I have been tracking them down ever since.”

“And so you decided to pose as a high school student, because--?”

“I am a High School student,” she says. “Valkyrie are just mortal women blessed by Odin.”

“Huh.” He scrunches one eye shut and peers at her. “The book I read said valkyrie only predict the outcome of a battle. Is that--”

“You mean the book on Norse mythology in the school library that’s probably from the seventies?” She sniffs disdainfully. “Written by an old white dude who's probably never even spoken to one of us. Valkyries fight. We’re elite warriors, with enhanced strength and dexterity, we also have expertise using a variety of weapons and hand to hand combat.”

“Cool. That’s cool. So you’re here to track the giant down and—”

“Kill it,” Allison says matter of factly.

“Noice.” Stiles shifts from foot to foot. “Gotta say I’m kinda relieved it’s not the other thing. The book said this whole thing about a loom? Where the severed heads of men are weights? And the entrails of men are— well. You know. Anyway. It said you weave tapestries that predict the outcome of a battle and—” He touches his own neck nervously. “--I was a little bit worried about why you wanted me for a second.”

Allison winces. “Well,” she says, drawing the word out guiltily.

“Oh my god. Oh. My. God.”

“We do that too— the weaving thing. No heads though—” she adds as an afterthought. “Or intestines. At least. Not nowadays. Maybe way way, waaaaay back. Like. Seriously. Before my time.”

“Comforting.” Stiles swallows.

“Anyway. That’s kinda why you’re here actually.” She gestures for him to join her. “One of my sisters wove this and, well—”

Despite himself, Stiles sidles over to take a look, and inhales sharply. “Woah.”

It’s beautiful. Intricate, finely woven threads that depict panels of a story in vibrant colors that seem to glow in the hazy sunshine. The figures in the tapestry shimmer and shine, almost like they could move if they wanted to. Stiles wants to reach out and touch them, has one hand outstretched to do it, but Allison bats it away.

“Don’t,” she says.

“Why. Is it, like, cursed or--?”

“You have Cheeto dust on your fingers.”

“Oh, right,” he glances down at his hands and rubs them on his jeans, sheepishly. “Sure.”

“So. Here’s the jötunn killing people in the preserve.” She gestures to the first panel. “People have tried to find him, defeat him, but he’s wiley and dangerous—” She gestures to the next panel, which shows someone who looks a little like Talia if Stiles squints, and someone else who looks almost nothing like Stiles’ dad (but is wearing a Sheriff’s hat) searching through the preserve.

“Maybe your sister needs to work on her faces a little bit or uh—” Allison’s eyes narrow, and Stiles feels his voice die in his throat. “But it’s good! It’s really good. Amazing.” It is. He isn’t lying. It’s just on close inspection the faces are a bit— samey?

“Here’s where I arrive.” There’s a whole panel devoted to Allison, she’s wearing shining silver armor and wielding a bow, and her face actually looks pretty good. Maybe that’s because her sister knows her though. “I find the giant on my arrival, battle him, but he’s strong, and he escapes unharmed. Which happened a few weeks back, and now we’re here—” She gestures to the next panel.

“Oh my god, that’s me!” Stiles yelps. It his him. He can definitely tell. Not because of the figure’s face (pale and kind of round with nondescript brown hair) but because it’s wearing his Stud Muffin tee.

“You enchant my arrows, with everlasting fire.” She cuts him a look out of the corner of her eye.

Stiles doesn’t say much, although his mind is already racing six steps ahead to work out exactly _how_ he’s gonna do that.

“Then we reach the final battle.”

“Is that— where is that?” Stiles says, looking at the final panel blankly. “Who are they?” There are a whole bunch of people milling about in the final panel. It clearly shows Allison standing over the frost giant though, her fiery arrows are imbedded in it’s skull. There are other figures there too, standing around in the background, more difficult to make out among the rubble of what used to be a house or maybe a school or--well it could be anywhere really. It’s been reduced to nothing. Stiles thinks a couple of the people in the scene might be werewolves, because while their faces lack the definition of Allison’s, their ears are kind of pointy and their nails are kind of sharp.

“I don’t know enough yet. I don’t recognize the location, and I’m not sure about the people.” Allison admits. “We can’t force this. Once you enchant my arrows, this will happen as predicted here, but I don’t know when. It might be a couple days after. It might be a month.”

Stiles is still transfixed by the final panel. “Who’s that glowing figure standing next to you?” There’s one person, wreathed in white light,  and the frost giant has scorch marks on its body.

She gnaws at her lip. “I don’t know,” she admits. “I haven’t met anyone who glows— All I can say for sure is, we’re definitely gonna win? Which is a good thing.” She chances a grin at him, and after a beat, he smiles back.

“That is good.”

“So,” she says. “Arrows. Eternal flame. Go.”

Stiles scrunches his face up. “You’re not gonna wanna hear this,” he says. “But I have no fucking clue how to do what you’re asking of me, and my magic has been kinda haywire lately?”

She tilts her head and looks at him. “Like how?”  
  
“Like I spend half my time randomly exploding stuff at the moment. Remember the magic lab the other week?”

“Oh, I though that was like-- a one off accident. But it's happening all the time?” She looks about, almost like she’s expecting him to demonstrate.

“It—” His voice catches in his throat, trailing off. Thing is. It’s been ok for most of today, actually, if he discounts the bit where he’d exploded a light bulb in the library with Allison. His magic had been restless then, but now he thinks about it ever since— An image flickers in his mind’s eye: Dark hair, pale green eyes, the soft, dry press of lips against his own. The rasp of stubble and the feel of breath damp against Stiles’ cheek. Under Stiles’ skin his magic practically stretches, rolls over, and purrs, docile and luxuriant, it sends a shiver down Stiles’ spine.

Oh god.

“It--huh.” he mumbles. It hits him like a train that after weeks of chaos, he hasn’t had a peep out of his magic since he made out with Derek earlier.

Coincidence? It could be. Stiles forehead crinkles thoughtfully. He’s gonna need more data to be sure, but it’s an interesting hypothesis.

“Either way,” Allison’s saying, with brisk confidence. “It doesn’t matter, just take time to think about how you would do it— because according to this—” She gestures at the tapestry. “You’re definitely gonna be able to.”

“Umm--sure,” he says absently, barely taking in what she’s saying. He lifts one hand to touch his own lips, mind wandering to--

“Stiles,” she clicks her fingers in front of his face. “Are you with me?”

He blinks. “Yeah. Totally. Just distracted thinking about— stuff.”

“Uh-huh. Derek stuff?”

“No.”

“Really?”

“Yes really. Enough with the tone.”

“What tone?”

“The judgy tone.”

“No judgement,” she lifts her hands, one eyebrow raised archly. “Just figured we should focus on the task at hands and not on things that are _k_ _not_ —” She glances slyly at him. “--immediately important.”

Stiles can feel himself flush. “I regret everything about our earlier conversation in the library. You’re a terrible person.”

“Awww.” She nudges him with her elbow. “Don’t be like that. It’s... _k_ _not_ a big deal.”

“You—”

“Or maybe it is? Did you uh--speak to him yet?”

“We made out in a janitor’s closet,” Stiles is going for disgruntled, because the knot jokes are lame, but just saying the words he finds he can’t stop the smile that spreads across his face.

“Ha! Yay!” She socks him on the arm, and then leans in. “Soooooo. Is it uh— y’know?” She winks. Terribly. She’s a terrible winker. Stiles is pretty sure he hates her.

“What?”

“To be. Or knot to be?” She sticks her tongue out.

He glares at her, so fucking done, and she dissolves into peals of helpless laughter.

“Just show me the fucking arrows, I need to see what I’m gonna be working with.”

 

**-**

 

They spend a good hour going over Allison’s weapons collection (which is scarily huge). She demonstrates her skill with a bow, and together they brainstorm different ways Stiles could actually enchant the arrows.

“You said three giants escaped,” Stiles says at one point. “Did your sisters need fiery arrows of death to be defeat the other two?”

“No,” Allison says, biting the inside of her cheek. “But this guy is bigger, more violent, and more powerful. So—” she shrugs. “It’s not surprising. I always knew he was gonna be tough. That’s why they sent me after him, because I’m the best at what I do.” She isn’t boasting. Just stating a fact. Like she knows her own worth, and Stiles is kind of impressed.

One day, he thinks, he wants to be like that. Confident. Assured of who he is.

 

When Stiles makes his way home, it’s dusk, and his head is buzzing with potential spell ideas. He’s able to create fire no problem— spends half is life making things explode— but imbuing an item with that ability in a controlled way is notoriously difficult, not to mention ever so slightly illegal. There are federal laws restricting the application of magical properties to non-magical items. That said, he figures Allison’s super fancy arrows probably don’t count as non-magical. What with them being from freaking Asgard and all.

So he’s probably definitely fine, but he isn’t gonna mention anything to his dad just to be sure.

As he parks his Jeep, he notes dad’s cruiser isn’t there, as expected. His dad is on a late shift this evening, and Stiles probably has the place to himself for another couple hours at least, which is kinda cool— he needs some space to get his head around the events of the day.

Once he’s inside, he kicks off his sneakers and then takes the stairs two at a time to his room. He throws himself into his desk chair buzzing with ideas and opens up his laptop. Cracking his knuckles he clicks on his browser, and starts to research.

It’s a half hour later when he’s disturbed from hyperfocus by the sound of something hitting the window.

Stiles sucks in a breath and stills. A few moments later there’s another sharp tap against the glass, and he flinches.

Slowly, carefully, eyes still on the window, he reaches down the side of his desk and gropes around for his baseball bat. Once it’s clasped tight in the curl of his fist he stands and, lifting it carefully, creeps over to the window, then twitches the curtain open and peers out into the night.

A second later he drops the bat to the ground with a clatter and opens his window a crack.

“Derek,” he hisses. “What are you doing down there?”

At that, Derek slinks out of the shadows to stand in the orange glow of a nearby streetlight. He’s wearing a leather jacket, tight jeans, and a scowl that is verging on embarrassed. As Stiles watches he shrugs.

“Are you—” Stiles sputters. “Is everything--?” He has no words, and there’s no point anyway. They can't have a serious conversation like this, they're not freaking Romeo and Juliet for one thing, and there's a frost giant on the loose for another. “Come round the front I’ll let you in and we can talk,” Stiles calls lowly, and turns to head downstairs.

A second later there’s loud thump, and when Stiles wheels round, startled, Derek’s perched outside his bedroom window.

“Holy shit!” Stiles says, stumbling back and clutching his chest. “Warn a guy!”

“Sorry.” Derek expression is still crumpled in a frown.

“I can’t believe you jumped that. Just— here,” Stiles starts forward, and throws the window open as wide as it’ll go; Derek squeezes through, and then stands there, shoulders hunched, like it would be possible for him to make himself look smaller, even as his eyes rake quickly over Stiles and then away.

“Are you—?” Stiles asks, reaching out to try and pat the guy down and make sure he’s not injured or bleeding-- but then at the last minute he stops himself. He isn’t sure it would be welcome, Derek seems closed off somehow. “Seriously. You’re freaking me out. Are you ok?”

“I was going to ask you that!” Derek snaps.

“Me?” Stiles says blankly.

“You never texted me back!” Derek says. “You sent half a text--And I texted back, and then I called, I called and texted a lot after the detention should have finished, and you didn’t pick up  and—”

“You were worried about me!” Stiles beams at him.

“No.” Derek rolls his shoulders. “Maybe a little. There’s a dangerous frost giant on the loose, remember?” He swallows, throat bobbing awkwardly.

“I didn’t get eaten by a frost giant. Obviously. Harris confiscated my phone and switched it off, and then I should have called after, but I had plans with— with a friend, and I got distracted. I only just got home a while back. I’m sorry.”

Derek ducks his head, eyes fixed on a patch of carpet somewhere to the left of Stiles foot. “S’fine,” he mutters, the tips of his ears are red.

“It’s cool that you were worried about me.”

Derek shoots Stiles a look. Kinda pissed, but kind of relieved. Stiles gets it.

“I mean,” Stiles says, “I like that you care, but not-- I really am sorry you were worried.”

Derek shuffles his feet, and some of the tension leaves his shoulders. “Ok,” he says, eyes flitting up to meet Stiles and holding his gaze.

“You could--uh,” Stiles’ tongue darts out to wet his lips. “Stay for a bit. Now you’re here. If you want.”

“I can’t. There’s a curfew remember? With the whole frost giant—” He makes a sweeping gesture with one arm. “I snuck out. My mom doesn’t know I’m here. She’ll be pissed.” He doesn’t move though, just stares at Stiles.

Stiles shuffles forward a bit, and looks up at Derek through his lashes. “S’late now, you could stay for a bit longer. Like, five minutes or--?” He reaches out to straighten the lapel of Derek’s leather jacket, and then his fingers linger there helplessly.

Derek’s watching him, eyes wide, pupils blown. His nostrils flare ever so slightly. “Maybe five minutes,” he says, voice a little hoarse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am completely overwhelmed by all the wonderful comments you guys left on the last chapter. Seriously. Without you guys I probably wouldn't write anything ever, you are the best, so thank-you. <3 <3 <3 <3
> 
> I'm also super sorry for how late this chapter is. First off it was Easter holidays (spring break) and my kids were all of school (not conducive to writing).. and then I watched endgame and... well... without giving away any spoilers, I was too paralyzed by feelings to write. Which probably sounds lame but it's truuuuuueeee. I fell down a Stony fic hole before the damn film came out, and I'm only just starting to climb out of it and resume my normal life. (Yes, I know, I know, Stony, not Stucky--ship and let ship and all that, eh?)
> 
> ANYWAY. That's why it took so long. And I'm sorry, but like I said. THANK-YOU FOR YOU COMMENTS and encouragement.
> 
> *Also... just ro be clear. This is not NOT an angsty fic. So next chapter is basically gonna be them making out. Chilling out. Getting to know each other... and then maybe the Sheriff comes home and is like... You guys....????
> 
> And then there's some other hand wavey plotty nonsense... but yeah. This is self indulgent shit so don't expect tooooo much xD

**Author's Note:**

> Next chapter coming soon? It's pretty much written (mostly). I'm just tinkering with it to get it right, and maybe gotta write a couple of extra scenes but it won't take too long?
> 
>  
> 
> Anyway thanks to anyone who leaves comments or kudos. You guys are the BEST <3


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